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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24755821">Neighbours to Lovers//Stenbrough</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/empiricallypossible/pseuds/empiricallypossible'>empiricallypossible</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bill Denbrough &amp; Eddie Kaspbrak Are Best Friends, Bisexual Bill Denbrough, Bisexual Stanley Uris, F/M, M/M, Richie Tozier &amp; Stanley Uris Are Best Friends</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:54:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,060</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24755821</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/empiricallypossible/pseuds/empiricallypossible</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>By all accounts, Stanley Uris was looking forward to a quiet evening in.  Only his upstairs neighbour had other ideas.  </p><p>***<br/>In which I decided Stanley Uris is a cat person and my friend helped turn it into a Stenbrough fic</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Whiskey and Stitches</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Slight TW for blood in this chapter</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Most houses on Kansas Street were like Stan’s.  Old, Victorian types that had been split into flats.  Flat A was the downstairs one, the one Stan and his cat occupied and then Flat B was the one that covered the upper floor, the one occupied by a man Stan had only spoken to, once, briefly, when he had been on his way in from work while the other man was on his way out.</p><p> </p><p>On the whole, Stan had never had a problem with his neighbour in the eighteen months he’d been living above him.  He didn’t smoke nor did he seem annoyed that Stan spent his time in the garden that <em>legally</em> speaking belonged to the upstairs flat.  </p><p> </p><p>The previous tenant hadn’t used the garden at all- something to do with allergies- but he’d given Stan the go-ahead to plant whatever he wanted and over the years it had become his haven away from work stress.  </p><p> </p><p>No, the upstairs neighbour never used the garden, not even when he brought the pretty red-haired woman Stan assumed was his girlfriend home in the summer months.  When it was winter, like it was now, Stan preferred to stay indoors and bake instead, or complete a jigsaw puzzle for the hundredth time.  </p><p> </p><p>Stan had never had a problem with his neighbour.  Until tonight, that is.</p><p> </p><p>It had been a ridiculously long and stressful day, even by accounting firm standards.  Which was why Stan breathed an audible sigh of relief when he opened his front door and shut it tight behind him.  </p><p> </p><p>He dropped his briefcase by his bookcase, it was heavy with the reminder of the work he’d brought home for the weekend.  Then he shrugged his suit jacket off, throwing it over the back of the sofa and loosened his tie.  <em>God it had been a long week.</em></p><p> </p><p>It was Friday.  The best kind of day because it was the one day a week he gave himself to do absolutely no work catchup.  Just him, his grey calico cat, Silver and an evening spent watching a bird documentary he’d been meaning to watch for weeks.  He might even make some gingerbread.  </p><p> </p><p>By all accounts, Stanley Uris was looking forward to a quiet evening in.  Only his upstairs neighbour had other ideas.</p><p> </p><p>Stan was sitting on his sofa, a good fifteen minutes into his bird programme, Silver curled up in his lap- she was being unusually social tonight, not that he was complaining- when a crash from upstairs sent her sprinting under the coffee table as a cloud of plaster came down from the ceiling.  The crash was accompanied by a lot of loud swearing and several smaller crashes. </p><p> </p><p><em>What the hell? </em> Stan thought.  It was true the floorboards in his house did little to mute noises.  In the four years he’d been living there, he wasn’t sure anyone had replaced the carpets upstairs and that meant there was little to protect his ceiling from whatever was going on upstairs.  The noise still hadn’t stopped and, already on edge from the day he’d had, he decided enough was enough- he’d have to go and tell the neighbour to pack it in.  Some people were trying to wind down on a Friday evening.  With that thought, he opened his apartment door and started up the stairs.  </p><p> </p><p><em>27B</em> was spelt out in gold lettering across the door and Stan knew from the doorbell outside that the man’s name was William Denbrough.  Well he had one or two things to say to this Mr Denbrough and before he could change his mind about saying them, rapped his knuckles against the door.  </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>It had been a long week.  Seemingly endless, in fact.  Not only did he have a deadline looming but his six year relationship with his highschool girlfriend, Audra Phillips, had come to an end just two days ago.  <em>Over text.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Hey,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Just think we should see other people.  We’re both so busy with work these days it’s impossible to find time together.  Flame’s kind of burnt out.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Audra x </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The fact she’d <em>signed it</em>, as if he hadn’t had her number in his phone ever since she’d slipped him a note with it written on when they were eighteen taking high school English together.  It stung, alright.  </p><p> </p><p>He knew where she was coming from, he knew he’d been consumed with his work what with deadlines and contracts, his <em>first ever novel</em> in the works.  He knew he should have expected this, that they both needed more contact than arranging meetups on the weekend or maybe one evening in the week but <em>God</em>, it stung. </p><p> </p><p>It stung so much that two days later, here he was, sitting at his desk, staring at the text on the screen with blurry eyes and an empty whiskey glass on top of his latest notes for finalising his novel.  He was being ridiculous, he knew.  Wallowing like this was not going to help anyone.  What he did next, certainly didn’t help anyone but it felt good.  Satisfying.  </p><p> </p><p>He threw his phone across the room where it landed, more by luck than judgement on the armchair.  The rest of the desk’s contents were not so fortunate.  He swiped his arm across the desk, a stack of his heaviest books he’d been using for research purposes went like stones to the floor, then his paperweight that Audra had bought him for his birthday one year, flying almost halfway across the room before it hit the wall, cracking paint, plaster and the thick glass casing on the ornament.  </p><p> </p><p>Then one more shove at the desk, swearing his frustration at everything under the sun, and both his notes and his whiskey glass hurtled to the floor.  The glass hit first, shattering with the force it met the floorboards with.  Shards of glass exploded in all directions, some fragments so small Bill was sure he’d be picking them up for months to come.  </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Now I have to clean this up. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t go along the hall to get the dust-pan and brush from the kitchen though, simply began picking up the bigger shards, not noticing just how sharp the edge on one was until it cut a deep gash across his palm, blood welling to the surface immediately.  He swore again then and threw his uninjured hand against the floor.  Once.  Twice.  Three times.  Until he became aware of a knocking other than his own.  It was coming from his front door.  </p><p> </p><p>The sound of impatient knuckles on wood.  Once.  Twice.  Three times.  </p><p> </p><p>Cradling his injured hand with the other, he hurried along the hallway and fumbled with the lock and chain across the door.  </p><p> </p><p>When he managed to get it open he was greeted with a tall man with earthy curls and irritated molten chocolate eyes- he knew he was drunk going off that description, or worse, <em>that was the actual quality of his writing.  </em></p><p> </p><p>The other man had clearly not long gotten out of some 9 to 5 office job, his shirt sleeves rolled up and tie hanging loosely around his neck.  Bill distantly recognised him as the man who lived in the flat downstairs.  </p><p> </p><p>“William Denbrough, is it?” For all the tension he was holding in his body, the other man kept his tone so even and quiet Bill might have described it as soft if he couldn’t read the anger in the way his eyebrows were reaching together.  </p><p> </p><p>“Yes?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m Stanley Uris.  I live downstairs.  Now I appreciate that you’re an agreeable neighbour most of the time and that you let me use the garden and that we’ve never had cause to argue before but I really must insist that <em>whatever it is</em> you are doing up here stops because <em>some of us</em> have had an awful week and would just like to wind down on a Friday undisturbed by you--” Stanley broke off then, finally tearing his eyes from the intense eye contact to notice the blood that had gathered in Bill’s cupped palm and had begun to run down his wrist.  Bill followed his gaze and instinctively drew his hand closer to his chest, feeling strangely vulnerable under the stare.  </p><p> </p><p>“What happened to you?” Stanley asked, all the anger gone from his voice just as swiftly as it had appeared.  </p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” Bill looked quickly away, embarrassed that his intoxicated breakdown had caused such a racket that his neighbour was now on his doorstep fully witnessing him in his dishevelled state.  “I--” he had no rational excuse for this one.  </p><p> </p><p>“Do you have something to patch that up?” Bill tried to think of where he kept his first aid kit but came up blank, </p><p> </p><p>“Uh--” </p><p> </p><p>“Have you been drinking?” Stanley asked, though there was no judgement in his tone.</p><p> </p><p>“A little.” Bill admitted, “you aren’t the only one who’s had a bad week.” realising what that sounded like he quickly added, “not that I’m an alcoholic.  I’m not.  It’s just I have a deadline coming up and my girlfriend broke up with me.  Over <em>text</em>--” Great.  He had never had a proper conversation with his neighbour in the years he’d been living there and now he’d gone and bled his heart out- perhaps an unfortunate turn of phrase given the blood now staining his plaid shirt- on his doorstep after one glass of whiskey.  </p><p> </p><p>“Sounds like your week was worse than mine.” and Stanley gave him something between a smile and grimace.  Whatever the look was, Bill liked it better than the expression he had when he’d been lecturing him.  There was even something endearing about it, the way it erased the seriousness that seemed to be etched into his face, something that made him feel all warm, almost like butterflies.  Or maybe it was just the alcohol.  </p><p> </p><p>“Stay here.” Stanley said.  <em>As if I’m going anywhere else,</em> Bill thought, but remained standing in his doorway all the same.  </p><p> </p><p>Stanley must have an organised apartment for within a matter of minutes he’d put his hands on a first aid kit and was on his way back up the stairs.  </p><p> </p><p>“Can I come in?” He asked, “I’d try and fix you up out here but it’d be easier if I wasn’t two steps from falling down a flight of stairs.” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course.” Bill moved rather awkwardly aside and the second Stanley was across the threshold, became hyper-aware of every little thing in his apartment that could be seen as messy.  Which was rather a lot.  “Sorry about the mess.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh don’t worry about it.” Stanley gave a small, polite smile, “You haven’t seen the state my place is in.” </p><p> </p><p>Bill took another look at the neat curls, the pressed shirt and suit trousers, the shoes that had to be polished at least daily to be so clean despite the state of the roads covered in slush and grit.  This guy’s apartment being a mess?  He doubted that.  </p><p> </p><p>Bill smiled back but it was only brief.  They’d reached the living room and with it the evidence of the extent of his meltdown scattered all around the room in the form of papers and glass and books.  He felt shame scorch his neck, the blood rushing to his face.  </p><p> </p><p>“Bet your place couldn’t top this.” He muttered.  </p><p>Stanley only hummed slightly in response as he followed Bill to the couch.  </p><p> </p><p>He opened the first aid kit in his lap and took out a strip of butterfly stitches and some antiseptic wipes.  </p><p> </p><p>“Do you have a cloth I could use?  To clean the blood from around the wound?” </p><p> </p><p>“Under the sink in the kitchen.” Bill made to get up but Stanley froze him in place with a light hand on his arm.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll get it.” </p><p> </p><p>It was as Stanley disappeared into the hallway that Bill realised his arm had started to tingle, like somebody had given him an electric shock.  </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Mr Denbrough’s kitchen was at the other end of the hallway, past two doors Stan knew must be the bedroom and the bathroom and then a further set of doors in the kitchen led on to the small balcony that overlooked the garden and was connected to the spiral fire escape.  </p><p> </p><p>As he made his way back to the living room with a soup bowl he’d filled with water after finding it sitting on the draining board, he took in the pastel blue theme the apartment had going.</p><p> </p><p>The hallway was dimly lit by the soft lamp light spilling out from the living room and the closer he got to it, the more clearly he could see the painting on the walls either side of him.  </p><p> </p><p>Painted from the skirting boards to the top of the door frame was a tree in spring time and, there on one of the higher branches was a red cardinal <em>Fringillidae Richmondena,</em> pain-staking in its detail.  </p><p> </p><p>Reentering the living room, Stan thought how much he'd like to meet the painter.  </p><p> </p><p>"Sorry about the bowl." He held it up, careful not to disturb the water and send it over the carpet.  "I didn't know what else to use." </p><p> </p><p>"It's alright.  Really, you don't have to do this." </p><p> </p><p>Stan gave him a look that could have been amused if it didn't have so many undertones of exasperated.  "Give me your hand," </p><p> </p><p>Stan had set the bowl down on the coffee table, an ugly glass thing, moving aside a newspaper- open on a half completed cryptic crossword- and several coasters decorated with puns that would give Richie a run for his money in their awfulness.  </p><p> </p><p>The man did as he asked, and Stan did his best to be gentle as he dipped the cloth into the water and began to wash the blood from along his arm.  When he'd cleaned up most of it from his palm he noticed the way the torn skin flapped ever so slightly and dropped the cloth into the bowl, reaching for the antiseptic wipes.  </p><p> </p><p>He knew this next part was going to sting, that he needed to find a way to distract him, </p><p> </p><p>"I like your hallway."</p><p> </p><p>"You do?  I painted it last year, back when I had more free-" a sharp hiss of breath as Stan brought the alcohol wipe into contact with the open wound, "time." </p><p> </p><p>Stan looked up at that, unable to keep one eyebrow from arching in surprise.  "You painted that?" </p><p> </p><p>"Yeah.  It's not much, but I wanted a canvas bigger than my sketchbook." </p><p> </p><p>"You're an artist then?" </p><p> </p><p>The other man blushed again, and Stan looked up again to see him bite his lip, before he reached for the butterfly stitches.  </p><p> </p><p>"An author, actually.  Or at least I'm trying to be.  I have an important deadline coming up in the next two weeks.  It's been a source of a lot of stress and then after--" he stopped himself, "sorry, it's not like you need to be hearing all this.  I haven't even told you my name, it's Bill."</p><p> </p><p>"No go on," Stan moved Bill's hand closer, so the back of it lay across his thigh, giving him something to lean it against when he applied the stitches.  "You're making me feel much better about my week." </p><p> </p><p>“I really could do this myself.” Bill protested as Stan used two fingers to hold the skin either side of the cut in place as he applied the first stitch, gently pressing it into place.  </p><p> </p><p>“As much as I’d like to see you try to apply butterfly stitches drunk and one-handed, it’d be easier for you if I did it.”  </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t drink that much.” </p><p> </p><p>Stan cast a glance at the pile of glass over by the desk, “Well your glass certainly didn’t last long.” </p><p> </p><p>Bill winced, from pain or embarrassment, Stan didn’t know.  “Sorry about the noise.  I don’t usually get like this when I’m stressed but everything’s just been so <em>much</em> lately and my best friend is busy with his own stress starting up his own business so I don’t want to bother him or spoil the times we get to catch up.  I didn’t want to bother Audra either, what with her signing her first acting contract.  Everyone’s just got so much going on that catch-ups are rare and I don’t want to ruin them by venting every time we manage to see each other.  <em>See</em>.” Bill put his head in his other hand and took a deep breath before releasing it slowly.  <em>Whiskey</em>.  Stan noted, <em>he’s been drinking whiskey.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Now I’m bothering my neighbour like he’s both my personal paramedic and therapist.  I’m a <em>mess</em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m an accountant, actually.” Stan said, “so though I may not be as qualified as a therapist to give you this advice, I’ll tell you anyway.  Your friends would want to hear from you.  Whatever it is, they’d want you to feel you could confide in them.  Trust me, no matter how daunting it might feel to talk to friends, it’s a damn sight better than dealing with the aftermath of confiding in a bottle of whiskey.  I’m sure your crystal glasses would thank you for it.  I know my cat and I would.”  Stan smoothed over the last of the five stitches and put the rest back into the first aid kit on the coffee table. </p><p> </p><p>“You have a cat?” Bill asked as he stared at his freshly cleaned hand.  </p><p> </p><p>“I do, yes.  She’s a grey calico cat.  I’m surprised she’s not already snuck onto your balcony while you’ve been living here.  She likes to lie there in the summer, it’s nice for catching rays.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll keep an eye out from now on, then.” </p><p> </p><p>Stan smiled, and it was probably the most genuine one Bill had managed to get out of him.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>“Now be careful with those stitches.  They’re only delicate and the cut was deep, curling your fingers or trying to close your hand will probably tear them and start the bleeding up again.” Stanley was standing on the doorstep again, first aid kit in hand after patching Bill up while listening to him talk, and- despite several half hearted protests from Bill- cleaning away the broken glass and picking up the papers.  </p><p> </p><p>“Right.  Thank you, Stanley.” </p><p> </p><p>“You can call me Stan.” </p><p> </p><p>It was Bill’s turn to smile, “Thank you, Stan.” </p><p> </p><p>“No problem, Bill.”  Then, as he turned to go, “I’ll see you around.” </p><p> </p><p>Bill almost called after him, asked if he could get his number so he could thank him when he was sober but realised that was stupid.  If he wanted to talk to Stan all he needed to do was go downstairs and knock.  He shook his head as he heard Stan's door open and then close.  He'd think about it tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Phonecalls and Visitors</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Bill woke none too happily to his phone blaring on the bedside table next to his head.  The piercing ring felt like someone was driving nails into his skull and he felt bone-tired as he yanked the phone from the charger and swiped blindly at </span>
  <em>
    <span>accept</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Morning.” he said, as he waited for his eyes to adjust so that he could read the contact name.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean, ‘morning’?” the familiar voice said, “it’s literally two o’clock in the afternoon.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bill shot up at that and wiped the sleep from his eyes, staring in disbelief at the clock on his phone.  <em>Oh </em></span>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span>, then the night before came rushing back to him and he flopped back down onto the pillows, </span>
  <em>
    <span>how am I going to face Stan today?</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thought.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bill?  Bill are you alright?” the now concerned voice of Eddie Kaspbrak dragged him from his misery.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?  Yeah Eddie, I’m fine.  Just a late night working, you know how it is.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ugh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>tell </span>
  </em>
  <span>me about it.” Eddie sighed, “Anyway.  Beverly and I were wondering if you wanted to come out for drinks tonight?  She’s taken a week off work and decided to come up to visit.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bev’s coming?  How is she?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ask her yourself when you show up tonight.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eddie I--” what was he going to tell him?  He hadn’t seen either of his closest friends in weeks and now he was about to turn down an offer on a night out in favour of staying at home pouring over notes in his stuffy apartment?  “I don’t know where we’re meeting.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll text you times and stuff and then I’ll come over to pick you up, I just thought I’d phone first, see how you’re doing.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh I’m doing alright.  I met my neighbour last night.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bill, you've literally been living in my old apartment for almost two years now how have you never spoken to Stan?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t realise you knew the guy so well.” Bill said as he made his way from the bedroom to the kitchen, intent on making himself a strong cup of coffee.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t.  We just spoke a few times when we passed in the hallway or when he asked if it was alright for him to use the garden seeing as I never did, that’s all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s it to you anyway?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing,” Bill said a little too quickly, “just wondered.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So I’ll tell Bev that’s a yes, then?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.  Yeah, I’ll see you later.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was mid afternoon when the doorbell rang and he heard knocking from the outer door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan had spent most of his morning working through the papers he’d brought home so was surprised to find he had a visitor.  Nobody usually called round and if it were Mike or Richie, Stan was sure that they would have called ahead.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he got out into the hallway he was surprised to see Bill making his way down the stairs, clearly having been interrupted in the process of getting ready to go out.  He was dressed in blue jeans, another plaid shirt- though this one was green- and his hair was damp and sticking up at odd angles like it had just been towelled dry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Staniel!” The shout, accompanied by more frenzied knocking made Stan realise he’d been staring and he looked away, flustered, as Bill reached the bottom of the stairs.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan swung the door open to find none other than Richie Tozier standing there, grinning at him.    He wore his usual leather jacket and Stan didn’t doubt there was some horrific haiwaan print shirt underneath but thankfully it was obscured as the zip on the jacket was done up all the way to the loudly crocheted scarf around his neck.  His wild curls were also covered for once, by a hat that somehow managed to match the scarf.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie’s eyes widened behind his glasses, the ones that he’d had since the first day Stan had met him in college.  Not the </span>
  <em>
    <span>exact</span>
  </em>
  <span> same ones, of course- Richie had broken those frames, and many that came after them in a variety of bizarre ways over the years- but they were near enough in style.  “So I leave you alone for two weeks and you get a boyfriend without telling me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan rolled his eyes at that, used to Richie’s attempts at humour.  Bill, however, who had come to stand behind Stan, was not, and blushed furiously at the suggestion.  “Oh I-I’m n-not--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He knows.” Stan assured him, “he knows </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> well.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie smiled again, “Sorry, I pressed the wrong doorbell.”  though he looked anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>but</span>
  </em>
  <span> sorry.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bill, this is my idiot of a best friend Richie Tozier.  Richie, this is my neighbour Bill.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie removed one of his gloves- gloves that also seemed to form part of the mismatched set- and reached out to shake Bill’s hand.  Bill, if a little hesitant at first, took it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Richie Tozier is my name and doing voices is my game.” Richie announced in that way of his, before drawing his hand back, “Staniel never introduces me properly.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stanley merely ignored him and turned to Bill, “I’ve tried to get him to call me Stan but he just comes up with worse every time.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aren’t you going to invite me in, Stan the Man?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan sighed and for a moment seriously considered shutting the door, but didn't, “See what I mean.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie moved into the hallway, removing his hat and shaking out his dark curls.  Stan shut the door behind him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see what you mean.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not you too, Billiam!” Richie was sliding out of his jacket and sure enough, Stan had been right about the hawiaan print, “will nobody ever appreciate my talent for nicknames?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Beep beep, Richie.” Stan said pointedly even as he took the jacket and array of winter clothing from his friend.  Draping them over one arm, he smiled apologetically at Bill, “sorry he rang your doorbell.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“An honest mistake!” Richie protested</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Bill said, “I was expecting someone any minute now, actually.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if on cue, there was a knock on the door and before either Stan or Bill could stop him, Richie had reached over and opened the door.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the doorstep, staring up at Richie, looking something between annoyed and confused, was a man Stan immediately recognised as Eddie Kaspbrak, his old neighbour.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh,” Eddie’s look of confusion deepened until he looked past Richie, who was largely blocking the doorway, and his eyes found Bill.  “Are you ready to go?  Or?” He looked back to Richie again, as if he were trying to understand what was going on, “Are you in the middle of something?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie finally moved then and Stan became acutely aware that he and Richie were now the ones in the way.  He knew he should probably retreat to his apartment and drag Richie with him but it’d be rude not to acknowledge Eddie.  He gave a small wave, </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Eddie.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie started, as if he were noticing Stan for the first time, but he recovered quickly and took one hand from where it had been shoved in his jacket pocket and waved back, “Hi Stan.  Let me guess, you’re hoping I’m moving back in to save you from this nightmare of a neighbour.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan felt Bill’s eyes on him, no doubt thinking about last night, and then smiled, “He’s alright, actually.  How’ve you been?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good, thanks.  You?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, alright, thanks.” Once their polite exchange ended, Stan seized the opportunity to leave, “anyways.  We’ll leave you guys to it.  See you around.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See you, Stan.” Eddie said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Catching up with Beverly and Eddie had been exactly what he’d needed after the disastrous week Bill had had.  Once the initial catchup on work life was complete, they’d moved on to discuss more interesting developments in their lives.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bev had met a nice guy who she’d been talking to for a few weeks.  His name was Ben and he was in architecture.  They’d only ever been to see one movie together and it wasn’t explicitly a date- they’d gone together when Bev had mentioned she’d like to go and see it and Ben had offered to go with her.  It hadn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>officially </span>
  </em>
  <span>been a date but Bev liked to think it meant there might be one in the near future.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie didn’t really have anything to share in the love life department which left Bill plenty of time to share his recent heartbreak.  Or maybe that was an exaggeration.  He’d seen this coming hadn’t he?  Felt the way their relationship wasn’t what it used to be even with the extra effort they were both trying to put in.  Was he hurting?  Yes.   Unquestionably.  Audra hadn’t meant nothing to him.  Was he heartbroken, though?  No.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he shared what he felt he could without making Bev feel guilty over her newfound happiness- both he and Eddie really were beyond happy for her after supporting her through the breakdown of her last and incredibly abusive relationship- which didn’t amount to much.  All he said was “Well things with me and Audra aren’t really great right now.”  He took a sip of whiskey in an attempt to avoid expanding any further, when a memory from the night before hit him.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Whatever it is, they’d want you to feel you could confide in them.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, more than not great, actually.” he went on, thinking of the advice Stan had given him, “we broke up.  Well, she broke up with me.  Sent me a text a few days ago.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the looks of sympathy already breaking out on his friends’ faces he put his glass down and waved his hand dismissively, “No, no.  It’s not like that.  She was entirely right, and if I’m honest, part of me saw it coming.  It’s what’s best for both of us.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His two friends looked at him intently, assessing whether he was telling the truth, then, realising he <em>was</em> being honest, Bev smiled, “Then I’m happy for you.  If this is what’s best for you, embrace it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Besides,” Eddie said, raising his glass to examine the contents, “it might give you the opportunity to get to know someone else.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bill and Beverly both looked at him, confused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh come </span>
  <em>
    <span>on</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Eddie insisted, “Bev being oblivious I can understand but </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>?  You </span>
  <em>
    <span>live </span>
  </em>
  <span>with the guy.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Realising that Eddie meant Stan, he almost choked on his drink, “I don’t live with him!  He lives in the flat below mine- that’s hardly the same thing!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait,” Bev said, “you think Bill should get with your ex-neighbour?  I thought you barely knew the guy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know him that well but when I showed up at Bill’s to pick him up he was in the hallway with Stan- that’s the neighbour- and some other guy.  Terrible fashion sense on him and didn’t say a word to me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And?” Bev prompted.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.” Eddie began to talk again but Bill cut him off, noticing the way he’d been sidetracked at the thought of Stan’s friend, Richie and, unable to let the opportunity to change the subject go, pressed on, </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You like him.” Bill teased, “you like Stan’s friend.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” but the indignant huff with which he said it was betrayal in itself, “I don’t even know his name!  Besides, you’re one to talk, I saw you giving Stan </span>
  <em>
    <span>the eyes</span>
  </em>
  <span> when he wasn’t looking.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well it sounds to me,” Bev said, breaking up whatever argument was about to ensue, “like I’m not the only one who’s found somebody new."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t even know his name!” Eddie shot back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Richie.” Bill supplied, “his name is Richie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You never told me your ex-neighbour was </span>
  <span>hot</span>
  <span>." Richie said when they were safely back inside Stan's apartment.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I wondered why you'd gone quiet all of a sudden.  Not even a nickname to throw at the poor guy." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh no, I can think of </span>
  <em>
    <span>several</span>
  </em>
  <span> he just looked like he might not appreciate them is all." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan was debating pointing out that very few people actually appreciated Richie's absurd nicknames for them when a little voice in Stan's head pointed out that actually he didn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>hate them himself.  It was a sign that Richie cared about him enough to tease him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Before you ask, no I don't have his number." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But your neighbour does." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan sighed, "Richie I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> asking Bill for his number." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh I don't need you to set it up for me, I just think I'm providing you with the perfect excuse to talk to him again." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I do not need an </span>
  <em>
    <span>excuse</span>
  </em>
  <span> to talk to my neighbour.  We barely know each other anyway." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And there's my point!  Talking to people is generally how you get to know them, Stanley.  Unless you're a stalker or something-- I don't know.  But you should try it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What makes you so sure I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to get to know him?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie smiled, the kind of smile Stan had seen a thousand times before and knew well enough that nothing good ever came of it.  And then he had his phone out and was reading from it,</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Message from Staniel yesterday at 9:05pm. 'Just met my neighbour.  He's a mess.  But kind of a cute mess.'" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Please, I text you about cute people all the time." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah but this is different.  I saw you checking him out when he came out of his apartment earlier." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Richie you were literally the other side of the door." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Frosted glass only hides so much." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's not frosted it's stained-" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well then it's even easier to see through."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That isn't the </span>
  <em>
    <span>point</span>
  </em>
  <span>." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Isn't it?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan couldn't believe it.  Richie Tozier had managed to make him speechless.  It didn't last long though, "he's just broken up with his girlfriend of six years.  I am not about to try and get with him, Rich." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But you admit you </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> him." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What are we?  Seven?  Yes alright I think he's attractive and I like his paintings and so what if I want to get to know him better?  Can't I just talk to him as friends?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Of course you can.  All I'm saying is I think you should be prepared for the possibility that he might end up liking you a little more than friends." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You weren't the only one sneaking glances at your neighbour." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"As </span>
  <em>
    <span>if </span>
  </em>
  <span>you stopped looking at Eddie long enough to notice anything like that." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie put his phone away then, though he didn't answer Stan's question.  So he tried asking a different one, </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What are you doing visiting, anyway?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Work's slower than usual.  Less gigs in the winter, if you ask me.  Thought I'd take off for the weekend and come see you.  I'm going to Mike's tomorrow, if you wanted to come with me." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan looked over his shoulder, at where the tax returns he'd brought home for the weekend were in a neat stack on the kitchen table.  "I'd love to.  Really.  But I just have so much to do this weekend that I couldn't spare the time.  Tell him I said hi though and that I'll give him a call or visit when I have the time." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Will do." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was another two days before Bill had cause to talk to Stan without making it seem like he hadn't been able to get the other man out of his head.  Which he hadn't.  It didn't help that the butterfly stitches were still holding his hand together and that everytime he looked at them or felt their resistance as he opened a door or tied his shoelaces, he was reminded of gentle dark eyes and a careful hand around his wrist.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This is just your writer's brain exaggerating everything after what Eddie said to you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even as he told himself this, he couldn't help the almost nervous feeling that fluttered in his chest as he knocked on the door of </span>
  <em>
    <span>27A.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a few painful seconds where Bill considered running back up the stairs and locking the door before he reasoned he'd never make it up the stairs in time and that as the knock had come without the doorbell, Stan would know it was him.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Bill." There was a little surprise in Stan's tone when he opened the door but he didn't seem disappointed to see him, not as if he'd been expecting someone else and didn't want to see him.  "Hey." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hi, Stan.  I… I was just wondering if I could maybe get your number so we could arrange uh-" <em>he had not thought this through</em>, "coffee?  Or something?  Just so I could say thank you.  Y'know, for stitching me up." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh sure." Stan's smile wasn't the polite one Bill guessed he would have given if he was just accepting his invitation to spare his feelings, he looked genuinely happy at being asked as he disappeared back into his apartment to get his phone.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe Eddie had a point.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Then he hastily filed the thought away.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Should I give you my number or do you want to give me yours?" Stan asked when he returned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Here." He held his phone out, screen already on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>add contact</span>
  </em>
  <span> option.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Stan thought it was odd he was so eager, he didn't say anything.  Just typed his number in and saved it under </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stanley Uris</span>
  </em>
  <span> before handing the phone back.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Thanks." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No problem."  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll text you, then." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm looking forward to it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bill definitely couldn't deny the warmth that smile gave him, but he tried to, regardless.  "Don't get your hopes up, I'm an awful texter." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Shouldn't I be the judge of that?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I suppose." Bill stepped back from the door and gestured to the stairs, "I'll text you." He repeated.  </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So I decided to continue it! (Obviously).  Apologies for the awkward dialogue heavy chapter.<br/>Thank you for reading ♡</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Coffee and Gingerbread</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sunday mornings came second only to Friday evenings in Stan's mind.  On this Sunday morning, he’d woken up just as early as usual but decided to make some gingerbread.  It was seasonal after all, and if Richie dropped by unexpectedly again he could always use it to lure him inside and distract him from annoying the neighbours.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One tray was already out and cooling as he leaned against the counter waiting for the second to cook.  He was just wondering whether it was worth getting some work in while they baked when his phone, which he’d had open on the new recipe, </span>
  <em>
    <span>pinged</span>
  </em>
  <span> announcing a notification.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, it’s Bill (your neighbour) </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan couldn’t help but roll his eyes at that, did Bill really think he had given his number to a lot of new people overnight?  And that more than one of them was called Bill?  </span>
</p><p>
  <b>Morning.  You’re up late.  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>That wasn’t exactly true.  It was nine-thirty on a Sunday morning which could only ever be described as late by someone who got up at the ridiculous time of 7am </span>
  <em>
    <span>every</span>
  </em>
  <span> morning.  Even on the weekends.  Someone like Stan.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re up early</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Yeah well, I wanted to get some baking in while I had the chance.  Richie never surfaces before eleven and I wouldn’t be surprised if he drops by again today.  </em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>P.S. sorry about yesterday, he’s like that</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Honestly don’t worry about it!  What’re you baking anyway?  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan smiled at the little exclamation mark Bill had thrown in, even though he was a writer, it was nice to know he texted with proper grammar too.  Texting Richie meant more emojis than letters and it often gave him a headache.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Just some gingerbread.</em>
  </b>
  <span>  He types out, “I could send you the recipe if you like” but then deletes it.  The guy is literally upstairs.  </span>
  <b>
    <em>You could come over and try some if you like,  I promise not to poison you.  </em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sounds good! </span>
  </em>
  <span>There was the exclamation mark again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>But I did promise you coffee and I have a kettle so maybe you could bring some upstairs?  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan considered the offer a moment before the timer on the oven went off and he put his phone away to deal with the gingerbread.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill had taken far too long deliberating over what to text Stan and in the end had hit send on his below average opening line without even realising it.  He stopped worrying about it though, when he saw how quickly he received a reply.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he anxiously waited on a response to his invitation to come over, he received another text, this one from Eddie, a reply to the message he'd sent late last night trying to casually announce that he'd acquired Stan's number.  Though perhaps 'casually' was the wrong word given the three exclamation marks he'd added on the end.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Congrats.  So when are you going to ask him out on a date????  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill was just about to send off a </span>
  <b>I'm not </b>
  <span>when there was a knock on his apartment door.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stan.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He cast his phone aside, Eddie could wait, and went to answer the door.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Standing on the doorstep, looking considerably more relaxed than the last time he had stood there, was Stan.  A plate of gingerbread cookies in his hands as opposed to a first aid kit, and a streak of what Bill guessed was flour smudged above his right eyebrow.  He wondered if Stan knew it was there and for the briefest, most fleeting moment, thought of reaching up to wipe it away, and maybe moving one of the curls that had fallen across his forehead--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry I didn't text back.  I needed to get the second batch out of the oven before they burned and then spent too long on presentation.  Which is to say, I threw them onto a plate and spent a good five minutes rearranging them into various shapes." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill, who had been staring at Stan again, tore his eyes from the flour and inspected the plate of gingerbread.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What made you settle on the circle?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well it's a relatively small plate, there's not much else I could have done." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill tilted his head, as if he were considering it, "you could have stacked them." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Like I would have made it up the stairs!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well seeing as you did make it, do you want to come in?  Kettle's boiled." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One cup of sweet coffee later and Stan was sitting on Bill’s sofa, as he had been the night before, though this time there was no blood and the other man had clearly made an effort to clean up his apartment.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The newspapers that had been strewn across the table had disappeared, and the coasters he’d noticed the night before were neatly stacked at one end of the table, with the exception of the two that were currently in use.  Even the desk looked like it had been tidied, though Stan didn’t see why he’d felt an obligation to clean up on his account.  A messy apartment only looked lived in, in his opinion.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So tell me,” Bill said, shifting on the sofa so that he was facing Stan, one arm bent against the back cushions so that he could lean his head into his hand and look at him properly.  “How long is it until these damn stitches can come out?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s only been </span>
  <em>
    <span>three days</span>
  </em>
  <span>, are they really that unbearable?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, no,” Bill began, and shifted again, examining his hand as he tried to open and close it fully, “but it’s starting to become annoying.  I can’t do anything without-” he paused, like he’d been about to say something, then went on, “wanting to rip them off.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here,” Stan said, and reached forward to take Bill’s hand, looking over it, “taking them off so soon wouldn’t restart the bleeding but the skin is still incredibly tender.  Nobody heals as quickly as they’d like.  It’s practically a rule.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill rolled his eyes, then did something Stan was entirely unprepared for.  He reached with his other hand for Stan’s wrist and turned it over, running his thumb along his inner wrist, wiping away a trace of flour Stan hadn’t realised was there.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Bill said, as he noted the way Stan was looking at him, “you have flour on your face and I figured you probably got it there by touching your face when you were baking.” he let go of his wrist and nodded at it, “so there was probably some on your wrist too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” was all Stan could manage as he reached up to brush where he thought the flour was.  “Is it gone now?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill smiled, like he was trying to suppress a laugh, “Nope.  Do you mind if I…?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Stan said again, “no.  No, I don’t mind.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other man moved closer, not quite close enough to be invading what Stan considered his personal space, but close enough that he could see the light pink dusting Bill’s cheeks.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Or was he imagining it?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  He didn’t have time to think about whether he was imagining it or not, though, when Bill brushed the flour away, and his thoughts scattered in his head.  Bill’s hand stilled, briefly, and Stan broke what he assumed was an awkward silence, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it gone?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Bill said, and hastily retracted his hand, leaning back again as Stan began to collect his thoughts.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was about to make his goodbyes, conscious of the blush creeping up his neck- unlike Friday, the room wasn’t dark enough to disguise it- when Bill’s phone, or at least he </span>
  <em>
    <span>assumed</span>
  </em>
  <span> it was Bill’s phone, buzzed.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Bill said, as he took it from his pocket, whatever tension had been in the room dissipated like smoke.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan watched as his eyes scanned the screen, expression flickering between emotions so quickly Stan couldn’t distinguish between them, he seized the opportunity to leave though- his work was still waiting for him and he’d spent a good two hours getting to know Bill over coffee and gingerbread.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it,” he said, and went to collect the plate, then, realising there were only three left- and </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> because it gave him an excuse to see Bill again- he left it on the table, “I have a mountain of work to be getting through as it is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Bill looked up from his phone then, “I see.”  Then he looked between Stan and his phone, “a-are you busy n-next weekend?”  He said, and Stan noticed he was stuttering again, like he had when he’d met Richie the day before.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Was the stuttering a nervous habit?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  He wondered.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill must have mistaken his pondering about the stuttering for searching for a way to get out of his company because he added, “Eddie asked about meeting u-up after he saw you again y-yesterday.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan had never really known Eddie all that well, they’d certainly never gone out as friends when they lived as neighbours, but Stan felt it would be impolite to decline- and again reminded himself that he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>accepting the offer because he’d see Bill again.  Absolutely not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, sure.  I’ll leave you to text me the details.  Thanks for the coffee, by the way, you make it better than I do, actually.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No problem.”  Bill smiled, and then, as Stan made his way to the door, called after him, “you could always bring one of your friends with you.  So you don’t feel outnumbered or anything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan turned back around, “even if the friend is Richie?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill glanced at his phone again, before nodding in affirmation, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Especially </span>
  </em>
  <span>if the friend is Richie.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan thought back to when he’d met Eddie.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  So Richie’s incessant pining </span>
  <em>
    <span>hadn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> been one-sided.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll let him know.  Though I doubt he’ll take much convincing, if you catch my drift.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Stan got back to his own apartment and before settling in to complete his weekend work, he decided to call Richie.  He reasoned he was probably awake by now, and calling involved no emojis, if he was willing to tolerate the Voices Richie sometimes slipped on under the pretense of practising for his shows.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The phone rang three times before he picked up and when he did Stan had to pull the phone away from his face and turn the </span>
  <em>
    <span>caller volume</span>
  </em>
  <span> down for the sake of his hearing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Staniel!” Came the shout from the other end, “What’s up?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Richie.” Stan said, sounding far more serious than he actually felt, “what are you doing next weekend?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh I’m terribly busy but I’ve just cleared the whole calendar for you, Stanley.  Why?  Are you asking me out on a date?”  Richie said in mock amazement, though he pulled the same routine every time Stan made plans with him so it did nothing beyond mildly irritate Stan.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Rich and you know I’m not.  But seriously, if you’re not busy, I’ve been invited out.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, as much as it flatters me that you’re considering sending me disguised as you, I really must tell you that I do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> have your bone structure.  Though I’m in--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Richie</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Stan interrupted, “seriously I don’t have time for this, I have so much work to get through today--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s gone eleven.” Richie said, suspicion creeping into his voice, “you </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>get up stupidly early so that you can get your work done stupidly early so that you can have the rest of Sunday to yourself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Richie.” Stan tried again to get the conversation back on track.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> could be so important to drag Stan the Man from his work?  Or maybe the question is </span>
  <em>
    <span>who</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Stan could practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear </span>
  </em>
  <span>Richie’s cheshire grin from wherever he was, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it perhaps your neighbour?” At the heartbeat of silence on Stan’s end of the line, Richie confirmed his hypothesis.  “So it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan tried to protest but Richie was on a roll and Stan was reminded he often forgot how perceptive and clever Richie was despite his 'class-clown' attitude.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stanley did you go out on a date with Bill Denbrough you’re ‘cute mess’ of a neighbour?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> go on a date with him!  I went to drop some gingerbread off at his apartment because he wanted to make me coffee to thank me for Friday is all.  It </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>a date.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh sure.” Richie said, smugness dripping from his words.  “So Bill Denbrough asked you out next weekend and you’re panicking about it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.  Eddie Kaspbrak asked me to meet up with him and Bill next weekend and suggested I bring a friend.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan had to admit he felt some satisfaction at the silence on the other end of the phone.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.” Richie recovered relatively quickly, “well sure, I’d love to chaperone your date with Bill.  Text me the details.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And before Stan could protest again that </span>
  <em>
    <span>it was not a date</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Richie had hung up.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>He said yes!</em>
  </b>
  <span> Bill sent the text to Eddie practically as soon as the door had shut behind Stan.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I told you he would</span>
  </em>
  <span> came the smug reply.  Bill imagined it was said with the same tone of an eleven-year-old saying “I told you so!” which didn’t surprise him since it was coming from his best friend.  </span>
</p><p><b><em>And he’s bringing Richie.</em></b> <b><em>:) </em></b></p><p>
  <em>
    <span>HE’S WHAT</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Bill could see Eddie in his mind’s eye, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline in that way they often did when he got worked up and started talking a mile a minute.  </span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I suggested it.  Didn’t want you to be a third wheel.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What makes you think I’m still going to show up? </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Oh you will.  You owe me from that time I broke up with Myra for you.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How am I still paying for that???  I swear you bring that up every time you want something.  It’s been SEVEN years!!!  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And it had been.  Seven years since seventeen-year-old Eddie Kaspbrak had moved out of his manipulative mother’s house and broken up with his girlfriend via his best friend, the only person he’d felt safe enough to come out to- who just so happened to be Bill. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Alright.</em>
  </b>
  <span> Bill conceded, </span>
  <b>
    <em>You can choose not to show but I’m sure Richie will be disappointed :( </em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shut up.  He probably doesn’t know I’m going to be there, let alone care.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill thought of the knowing smile Stan had given him before he’d left.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Sure he doesn’t </em>
  </b>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for all the love I've had on this already, it really helps to push past the writer's block♡</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Conversation and Wine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>For all his confidence and incredibly tentative and nervous flirting the week before, Bill felt sick at the thought of the evening ahead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew it didn't make sense.  He knew that it probably wasn't even a date in Stan's eyes.  Afterall, the few texts they'd exchanged during the working week had been more friendly than polite and yet he still wasn't sure what exactly Stan expected of their evening.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie was no help either.  All he'd fussed about was the fact Richie was going to be there.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>All week</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Bill couldn't blame him though, he suspected if he hadn't spent all week pushing the thought of it to the back of his mind, he'd have been on about it just as much.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had debated calling Bev to ask her what exactly one wore to a not-date with their neighbour but realised that might give the impression he cared so much that it </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a date and then she’d never let him live it down.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So in the end he had decided his outfit all by himself, and judging by the clock sitting on his desk, it would have to do.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The original plan had been to meet Stan and make their way into town together but he’d gotten a text a few hours ago that read </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Been held up at work.  Don’t wait for me but don’t cancel.  I’ll meet you there.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And that was how he found himself sitting at a table absently rearranging the cutlery as he listened to Richie and Eddie bickering from either side of the table.  Richie only grinning wider at every overreaction he got from Eddie who was moving his hands about so enthusiastically, or perhaps aggressively better matched his tone and facial expression, that Bill had half a mind to tell him to stop before he knocked a glass over or hit Richie in the face.  He was saved from having to watch either scenario play out, though, when Stanley slipped into the chair across from him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd been so distracted by Richie and Eddie that he hadn't noticed Stan walk in.  He definitely noticed him now.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan had clearly come straight from his office.  He hung his jacket on the back of his chair, exposing shirt sleeves and his tie, considerably neater than the last time Bill had seen him in work clothes but not as put together as he would have been leaving for work that morning.  Bill didn’t mind, the slightly dishevelled look was nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry I’m late!” Stan said, and Bill, eyes drawn to his face now, noticed the fine rain droplets in his hair and mentally kicked himself for not bringing anything waterproof with him.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh well</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thought to himself as Stan sat down next to Richie, </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’ll probably clear up later.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to watch out for that neighbour of yours, Bill” Richie said as he picked up yet another breadstick, “a </span>
  <em>
    <span>complete</span>
  </em>
  <span> workaholic.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan looked like he was about to protest when Eddie reached across the table and dragged the basket of breadsticks towards his half of the table.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really, Richard?” Richie, who was halfway through the latest breadstick merely raised his eyebrows at his full name being used.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you going to save any breadsticks for the rest of us?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill, who had been out for dinner with Eddie and Bev on a number of occasions, had never known Eddie to eat the breadsticks, or even to look at the bread basket.  He despised sharing food for reasons the three of them knew had been drilled into him by his mother.  Richie, though, had no idea, and so Bill was surprised though mildly amused when Eddie- apparently trying to prove a point- took a rather aggressive bite of the breadstick, glaring at Richie the whole time.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By contrast, Richie was grinning at Eddie in a way that said he had wanted to provoke a reaction and he knew he had succeeded.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shame I moved into the apartment downstairs and not Richie.” Stan muttered from across the table.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think the house would have burned down within the first month.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re rather optimistic.” Stan glanced over at where Richie seemed to be considering leaping across the table and snatching the basket out of Eddie’s hands for no other reason than he thought it would be fun to see Eddie’s reaction.  “I’d have given it a week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie was waving his hands around, something he often did when he was trying to make a point, and before he could knock anything over Stan decided to try and defuse the situation, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, Eddie, I never asked when we were neighbours but what do you do for a living?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The most basic of small talk questions</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Bill thought, it seemed to be effective, though.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well I’m a risk analyst.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, and what does that entail?” Richie seemed genuinely invested in the answer-- for all of three seconds.  When Eddie began his explanation Richie cut him off by snoring.  Bill wasn’t sure what was attracting more attention, the snoring or the steady stream of expletives Eddie had responded with.  Either way, both were abruptly cut off when the waiter mercifully arrived with their drinks.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aside from the rocky start to the evening, what with being held up at the office and arriving late to find Richie already driving Eddie crazy, the four of them had fallen into a nice rhythm of conversation over dinner and a fair amount of alcohol seemed to have gone a long way in mellowing everyone out.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The discussion had gradually moved out of the agonising small talk stage and Eddie was busy grilling Richie on whether he wrote his own material for his shows.  Meanwhile Stan was chatting to Bill about the plan for his first novel,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll just have to read it when it gets published.” Bill smiled, Stan had been working on him all through dinner and his efforts were only intensifying while they waited on dessert.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not even one small spoiler?  Not even after I-” Eddie’s ears seemed to prick up at that and, remembering the panicked way Bill had looked at him when it sounded like the incident that had caused the two of them to meet was about to be mentioned, finished with “made you gingerbread?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope.  Not even if you made more.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” he conceded, “I’ll just have to be patient then.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie snorted, “Stan?  Patient?  I don’t think so.  He was the kind of kid who would pull all-nighters to finish novels because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>to know how they ended.  He also turns the oven up to make things cook faster.  And he once got out of a taxi in the middle of a storm just to get home quicker because the traffic was so bad.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I’m an impatient workaholic, anything else you’d like to share with the group, Rich.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was that grin again, “Well--” before he could get any further though Stan lightly kicked him under the table.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve known each other since you were kids?” Bill asked</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah,” Stan said, “we met at school and kind of just latched onto each other.  The impatient workaholic and the loud trashmouth, not like we were the best company or friend material.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How can you possibly be a workaholic in elementary school?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie pointed a finger in Stan’s direction as if accusing him of a crime, “Never missed a single assignment or piece of homework and </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> got full marks in every spelling test.  Also while all the other kids were rushing home or at football practice, Staniel here was busy helping tidy up the classroom- and </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span> he even sharpened all of the pencils.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you’re just annoyed that I never agreed to join you in drama club.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, you did drama club?” Eddie asked </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well of course I did, Spaghetti.” The nickname had come after Eddie had made the mistake of ordering the pasta for dinner, but Stan was fairly sure Richie had had that one ready to go before he’d even arrived at the restaurant.  “All this confidence and charm would be simply </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasted</span>
  </em>
  <span> on a football pitch.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh I don’t know,” Bill offered, “your Voices might be good in the commentators box.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie put his glass down a little too quickly- if he hadn’t already drunk most of it, it would have slopped over the side- and slapped his hand down, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>That</span>
  </em>
  <span> is a wonderful idea.  Definitely a backup if this comedy thing goes sideways.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And were you actually cast in any of the productions?” Eddie, still interested in the drama, asked.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was more small sketches than anything else,” Stan said, “and while he had plenty of practice for his Voices and was more often that not centre stage, he never wrote his own material, not even back then.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could write my own stuff!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you should leave the writing to Bill.” Eddie said, taking a sip of his drink.  Richie’s attention shifted at that, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a writer?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trying to be.” Although he said them with confidence, the words themselves didn’t seem to hold much and Stan found himself wanting to reassure Bill that he just needed to have a bit more faith in himself but that wouldn’t have any weight behind it.  He made a mental note to ask Bill if he could read any of his work or, if that was too personal and intrusive a question to ask of a writer he would jump at the chance should Bill offer.  “I have a novel in its final stages so hopefully it goes well.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bill’s just trying to be modest, he’s a really good writer, always has been.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill just shrugged but Stan could tell Eddie’s support meant a lot.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Always?  Have you two known one another for a long time too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah.  Lived across the street from one another as kids.  Pretty much best friends all the way through.  Us two and Bev.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh damn we should have invited Bev!” Bill said suddenly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She goes home tomorrow, we can send her off with dinner tomorrow night.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Two days in a row where I don’t have to cook is fine by me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So Stanley’s the only chef living in that house?  I pity the cat.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He makes decent gingerbread cookies.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You made cookies and didn’t bring me any?!” The look of betrayal on Richie’s face was probably more comical than any of his Voices.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never made me cookies when I was his neighbour.” Eddie added with a sideways glance at Bill that Stan couldn’t quite work out.  There was plenty of eyebrow raising involved though and a moment later Eddie jumped, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bill must have kicked him under the table.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Nobody had time to question it though, as dessert had arrived.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>By the time they’d finished dessert, knocked back a few more glasses of alcohol, and paid for the evening, Richie and Eddie had exchanged numbers- not quite as discreetly as they thought they had- and Bill and Stan were on their way out to meet their cab driver.  It hadn’t stopped raining yet and the car had managed to park as far down the street as was physically possible which meant a sprint down the street which Bill wouldn’t have been the best at under normal circumstances, never mind after drinking a considerable amount of wine.  He didn’t have to make a run for it though, Stan saw that he had brought no jacket and pulled an umbrella from his coat pocket, extending it and opening it up before they stepped out under it, the rain bouncing off the covering.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks.” Bill said, tucking in a little closer to keep from getting his right arm soaked, “I forgot to check the weather when I woke up this morning.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright.  Thank you, by the way, for inviting me.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>And </span>
  </em>
  <span>Richie.  I think he got what he wanted out of tonight.” The two of them glanced back to where Richie and Eddie were, still standing in front of the restaurant doors, they were no longer at each other’s throats like they had been at the beginning of the evening, if anything the body language said they were almost reluctant to say goodbye.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No worries, it was actually a great evening, I really enjoyed it.  In fact, I’d suggest we do this more often, if you’re up for it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With Richie and Eddie?” Stan asked as he opened the door and gestured for Bill to get in so he could put the umbrella down.  Bill was debating whether now was the best time to suggest that just the two of them went, when the driver turned in his seat, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where to?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“27 Kansas Street, please.” Stan said, as he got in and shut the door behind him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No problem.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cab ride was over fairly soon and Stan found himself at the bottom of the stairs splitting their apartments, saying goodnight to Bill, what he considered, too soon.  He’d meant it when he’d said thank you for being invited.  It really had been a wonderful evening. The last time he’d had such a good night was when he, Richie and Mike had gone out to dinner last.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Bill said, “I guess I’ll see you soon.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Stan moved towards his own apartment door, reaching for his keys in his jacket pocket.  “I’ll text you, of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Because this isn’t awkward at all</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Stan thought, remembering how awkward he was at ending conversations.  He was no better on the phone either.  And things with Bill seemed even worse, probably because he was now relatively sure that he liked Bill perhaps slightly more than people usually liked their neighbours.  Particularly the ones you met through noise complaints.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight, and thank you again for inviting me, I had a lovely time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stanley.” The way Bill said his name was what made him turn away from attempting to unlock his front door.  When he did turn Bill was much closer than he had been the last time he’d looked.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I-” there was pause, Bill looked slightly unsure, but he didn’t stutter- something Stan had learned over dinner was something Bill had learnt French to overcome when he was a child, and something he only did as an adult when he was exceptionally nervous- “can I kiss you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Entirely sober Stanley would probably have had one or two things to think about before deciding.  Like the fact they hadn’t long known one another.  Like the implications this would have on them as neighbours in the long term.  On how it would affect the friendships they’d only just formed with each other’s friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it was, this Stanley wasn’t concerned with any of that.  This Stanley simply smiled, that soft smile he didn’t often use and said, very quietly, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And before he knew anything else, Bill was kissing him.  It was a nice kiss, that unsureness of two people at first and then there was a little more behind it and without thinking too much about it Stan had left his keys in the door and had brought his hands up to run through Bill’s hair, slightly damp from the dusting of rain between the front gate and the front door.  He could taste the wine they’d been drinking all night on his lips and he smelled of cologne and fresh air.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>The wine</span>
  </em>
  <span> a distant thought said; </span>
  <em>
    <span>we’re drunk</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  But the thought was swiftly pushed away.  It was something that realistically, was only going to be dealt with in the morning.  </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for bearing with me- all the love and comments on previous chapters does mean the world and has really kept me going!  I had such major writers block with this chapter despite having a vague idea of plot by now, I found it so difficult to write interactions between all four characters.<br/>Mike's coming up in the next chapter and I'll do my best to get the next chapter out before the end of August, I've also started working on another fanfic for IT and am wondering about publishing that ♡</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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